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The Chosen
She wrote to me.
Her profile
Looked promising—
No dancing.
No boardgames.
No mention of football.
No jazz clubs.
No dancing.
No boardgames.
No mention of football.
No jazz clubs.
I wrote back to her.
We wrote to each other.
Her words were light—
Friendly, engaging.
We called. We chatted.
I talked too much. Nerves.
She sounded sweet.
A lovely laugh.
Coffee somewhere,
The standard meeting,
Was arranged.
I thought I had
A good sense of her:
What she was like,
What she would be like.
But nothing prepared me
For what stepped off
The 75 tram
And into my life.
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This poem shimmers with expectation as we wait for this tram with you. Nicely paced with an intriguing 'what' in last stanza. Has us think this person is other worldly.
ReplyDeleteThat is a fair description.
ReplyDelete